The Afternoon of the Rebel Ordeal
by SilverShadow44
Summary: My version of an origin story of how James West and Artemus Gordon first became a terrific team! A Civil War baptism of fire forges the strongest of friendships . . . .
1. Chapter 1 - Teaser

**The Afternoon of the Rebel Ordeal**

It was still dark out, and cool, but dawn was beginning to creep over the horizon as Secret Service agent James West practiced his martial arts moves a short distance from the Wanderer. He craved mornings like this, solitary and silent and in between dangerous assignments, when he could exercise at his leisure and take in deep breaths of clean air. No worries. He shivered just a little as he felt a trickle of sweat drip and then evaporate almost instantly in the morning chill. He took another deep breath and a distant but familiar scent in the air flooded him with a strange sensation. He froze in mid-maneuver as the power of memory overcame him, sharp as a razor – a long-buried memory of years ago. Of another chilly morning when he'd felt the sweat on his skin go dry, under far less pleasant circumstances . . . .


	2. Chapter 2 - Unexpected Help

The cold made him shiver, he told himself, not fear. Captain James T. West, one of the youngest officers serving in the Union Army, had every reason to be afraid. But panic wouldn't help him out of his present situation. Effort might. Effort was making him sweat even on this chilly December morning, though he had nothing but scraped, raw wrists and aching arms to show for it. He kept up his silent, determined struggle, though the bonds holding him to the makeshift pillory post hadn't loosened even a little. If only he had some sharp object . . . . he almost had to restrain a laugh at the thought. How would he conceal such a tool? His Confederate captors had taken even his shirt. But he couldn't give up – not now.

Captain James T. West was a man who didn't give up – ever.

He _had_ to get his message through to General Rosecrans somehow. The Union was depending on him, his country was depending on him. It was a lot of responsibility to put on the aching shoulders of one captured, half-naked young officer. And how had he gotten himself into such a mess? How, he berated himself, could he have been so swell-headed to think he could carry out such a dangerous, important mission all by himself? How could he have been so blind, so naïve as to get caught? If he hadn't been tied to the post so tightly, he might have kicked himself for his own foolishness. But that wouldn't do him any more good than panic would. It was hard not to feel anger and discouragement in this predicament though.

He knew why he'd been chosen for a perilous undertaking. He was the best. The best of what was an admittedly undistinguished lot. That was the Union's biggest problem, wasn't it? Their cause was just, their will was strong, their officer corps . . . .

. . . . left a lot to be desired.

Captain West felt nothing but admiration and respect for President Lincoln and _some_ of the Union army generals. But he, like many serving, had deep reservations about others in leadership positions – even his fellow captains, not that he'd met many of them. But he'd heard things. They all heard things. Captain Custer was brave enough, but a pretty boy publicity hound too. Everyone knew Monroe was a drunkard, and maybe a coward. Gordon hadn't even started out as a proper soldier – he was a stage actor and violinist of all things! Now _there_ was a skill that would come in handy on the battlefield . . . . As for Smythe, Wyndham and Clove . . . .

And West?

West would be just one more dead body if he didn't manage to get these ropes off.

 _No!_

He was going to escape! He _had_ to escape! He had vital, desperately important information to get to the General. It was his duty to the country! To everyone and everything he held dear! His ghost wouldn't let him rest if he failed now.

Captain West saw the lazy sneer on the face of the Confederate sentry guarding him. Did the sentry think this was nothing more than an amusement? _Just wait, you bastard_ , West thought.

He was still holding onto that thought when he saw a stranger approaching before the sentry did. It was a figure mounted on horseback, and as the figure rode closer to the encampment, West saw that this wasn't a random stranger at all, but a uniformed Confederate officer. West's heart sank. _Don't give up!_ he reminded himself fiercely. _Never give up!_ Though he knew in the back of his mind that the only reason he was still alive was that the rebels were awaiting the order to kill him – or worse. Was this his death warrant arriving in the saddle?

The sentry stopped sneering and slouching on the ground and stood at attention as the officer rode up. The Confederate colonel didn't _look_ like a mere messenger or even the bearer of bad tidings. He was a regal figure in a full dress uniform that had seen slightly better days once. He dismounted and presented himself to the sentry in a manner that suggested he was old Southern nobility of the most dignified sort. His immaculate if long and curly blond hair, beard and mustache reminded West a little of Captain Custer's, though Custer had none of this officer's courteous bearing. The Colonel's voice, when he spoke, rang loud and clear but with a thick, old planter's accent.

"Colonel Stephen Beauregard Boone, Suh, of the Florida Boones. Youah ah familiah with that name, ah expect."

The sentry gulped and saluted smartly. If he didn't know who Colonel Boone was, he wasn't going to admit it to the officer's face. The Colonel then spared a passing glance at Captain West, tied to the pillory post.

"Ah can see youah maintain a strict discipline among youah troops at this heah installation," he commented.

The sentry gave the prisoner a backward look, startled and this time without the sneer.

"Him? Uh, nossir! That there's a Yankee spy that we caught!"

"A spy!" the Colonel huffed with incredulity. "He has moah the look of an officeah to me."

The sentry shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, not wanting to contradict his superior again. West watched with interest.

"Don't rightly know 'bout that, Colonel," the sentry admitted. "He ain't talked much, so they've sent for orders t'find out what to do 'bout him."

"Have they now," Colonel Boone walked closer to the post and looked West up and down appraisingly before turning back toward the sentry and pulling a sheath of papers from a pouch at his belt. "Well ah have mah orduhs, Suh! Take me to youah commanding officeah!"

The sentry gulped even louder and became flummoxed.

"But – but, Sir! I'm not allowed to leave my post!"

 _Neither am I_ , thought West grimly, keeping up his efforts. He was almost enjoying the sentry's discomfort. But within a minute of the Colonel's demand, the camp's sergeant came striding out of his tent to find out what the commotion was.

"Colonel Stephen Beauregard Boone, Suh," the Colonel repeated, snapping his sheath of papers at the sergeant. "On a mission of inspection, as ohdered by Genuhral Lee himself, Suh." As the sergeant saluted and began reading the Colonel's orders – moving his lips as he did so, West noticed – the Colonel looked up and down and around at the encampment and began to frown. "Ah can see ah have mah work cut out for me heah." He rounded on the sergeant. "Are youah, Suh, the commanding officeah of this facility?"

The sergeant, like the sentry, stood up ramrod straight, pinned by Colonel Boone's sharp gaze.

"Uh, no Sir, Colonel Boone, Sir! That'd be Major Swallow, Sir, but he's gone to headquarters, so I suppose I'm the closest thing we've got to one at this moment, Sir."

The frown on the Colonel's face deepened.

"Misuhrable," the Colonel shook his head. "Misuhrable."

"Sir?"

"Ah'm refuhhin to the state of this heah encampment," he drawled, making a wide gesture, a sweeping arc with his arm. "Call out youah men, sergeant. Ah want to see everah one of them, so ah can detuhmine just how desperate a situation weah ah in heah."

The sergeant did as he was told and a moment later, ten men, including the sentry and the sergeant were lined up for inspection. Captain West ceased his struggles long enough to watch the proceedings and memorize the names and ranks called out. These weren't the men who had captured him – those had apparently gone to 'headquarters' along with Major Swallow. West was glad he hadn't fallen to men such as these. In the bright sunlight they looked like a sorry lot. Colonel Boone certainly had no trouble finding fault with each and every one of them, or with the encampment.

"And wheah," the Colonel demanded, "is youah picket hoss?"

"You mean the horse picket, Sir?" the sergeant asked, confused, pointing to the railing where the Colonel had tied up his mount.

"No, Suh!" Colonel Boone shouted, indignant. "Ah mean the picket hoss, Suh! The hoss! The one youah ah supposed to keep saddled and ready fuh an emergency, Suh! So youah can send a messenjuh or a courieuh at a moment's notice!" The Colonel waved his arms about in irritation. "Did youah not receive the orduh handed down by ouah great Genuhral or are youah refusin' to complah?"

The sergeant pleaded ignorance, which Colonel Boone said was plain enough to see. Nothing would do to correct the flaw but for the sergeant to get the requisite picket horse in place, fresh, saddled and even equipped with loaded firearms in the saddlebags. Only when Colonel Boone saw it beside his own horse did he pronounce himself satisfied – with that at least. As for the rest of the camp, the Colonel had the men scurrying all over correcting this defect or that. Had it not been for the urgency of his own frustrated mission and the imminent threat of torture and death, Captain West might have found the spectacle entertaining.

"Ah say, Mistah Snead," (for that was the sentry's name), "has no one given that pooah fellow a drink of watuh in all this time?"

Until that moment, Captain West had not been allowing himself to dwell on how thirsty he was. He'd had nothing at all to eat or drink since several hours before his capture over a day ago. Now he felt parched and starved, something he wished he hadn't been reminded of. Neither Snead nor his sergeant seemed concerned.

"He ain't a poor feller," Snead objected. "He's a Yankee!"

The sergeant only shrugged.

"Didn't youah tell me that youah was awaitin' orduhs fuh what to do with him?" the Colonel asked.

Both men agreed.

"And youah think it's best to risk youah prisonuh dyin' of thust before youah get those orduhs?"

The sergeant grudgingly allowed that it was not a good idea and motioned for the sentry to fetch their captive a cup of water. They were not about to untie him, but Snead even more grudgingly lowered a dipper into the camp's rain barrel and then carried it to the pillory. As he approached, West saw Snead work up a big gob of spittle in his mouth which he plainly intended to add to the dipper. But Colonel Boone saw it too, cleared his throat loudly and gave Snead a hard look that caused the sentry to spit onto the ground instead. With a sullen curse, Snead jammed the ladle of brackish water up against West's mouth. Captain West gulped as much of it as he could before Snead snatched the dipper away.

"Ah imagine the prisonuh could do with a mahsul of food too," Colonel Boone suggested.

This was too much even for the sergeant.

"Feed a _Yankee_ , Sir?" he protested. "We need to save our rations for our own men!"

"Ah can see that," the Colonel nodded, although the sergeant did not appear underfed. "Fahtunately we Boones always come prepahed."

To the astonishment of the others, including West, Colonel Boone opened one of his belt pouches, took out a small, paper-wrapped parcel and approached the prisoner himself. Unwrapping the parcel, the Colonel carefully held it up to West's mouth. It was a fluffy biscuit, redolent with butter and filled with thin slices of smoked ham. In his present condition, West would've thought weevil-infested hardtack a manna from heaven, but this – this was a feast. It was all the ravenous captain could do to eat it slowly enough that none fell on the ground and that he didn't bite the hand that fed him.

"Thank you," he croaked when every last morsel was gone.

"Youah welcome," the Colonel nodded. Then, even more astonishing, Boone brought forward his own canteen and held it up to Captain West's lips for the captive to drink his fill. Unlike the stagnant water from the rain barrel, this was clean and sweet. West thought it was the best water he had ever tasted.

As West stared at the Colonel with puzzled gratitude close up, he noticed that the Colonel's eyes were a deep, dark brown. Odd – one didn't usually see that color of eyes with such fair hair. Those brown eyes looked down at West's chafed arms and wrists.

"If ah was you, Suh, ah'd recommend saving mah strength for latuh," the Colonel said quietly. Then, before he turned away from the prisoner, Boone gave West a friendly wink.

 _What on earth was that for?_ West wondered. But then he thought of the picket horse, which West well knew other Confederate encampments didn't seem to have. And wheels began to turn in his head and he began to have hope again . . . .

Half an hour later, nine of the camp's ten men, including the sergeant, had gone a distance from the camp to dig a new latrine trench that would meet Colonel Boone's exacting requirements. Only the Colonel and Snead had stayed behind to guard the prisoner. This was evidently the moment that the Colonel had been waiting for and Captain West had begun praying for. As soon as Snead had his back turned, the Colonel calmly and efficiently coshed the sentry over the head so that Snead dropped to the ground unconscious. Then this counterfeit Confederate officer ran to the pillory post and began cutting away and untying the ropes holding West. The voice that West heard in his ear was deeper and now contained not even the slightest hint of a Southern accent.

"Captain West? I'm Captain Gordon. I've come to rescue you."

 _Captain Gordon?_

"The . . . actor?" Captain West whispered.

"The same," his rescuer chuckled. "Now may I suggest a strategic hasty retreat?"

As the last of the ropes fell away, Boone/Captain Gordon helped West take his first few stiff steps, inquired if he was hurt and then both men made a dash for the horses. Less than a minute later they were out of site of the camp, galloping on horseback toward the North and freedom. West was ecstatic – could this really be happening? Might he get his information to General Rosecrans yet? West had never met Captain Gordon before now, but he silently swore to himself that if they got out of this alive, he was never going to look down on actors or violinists again.

A cloud of dust and a clatter of horse hooves on the road ahead of them reminded him that that was still a mighty big 'if.'

"Trouble," Captain Gordon said, slowing his horse and looking to see who was in their way.

It was more than just trouble – it was Major Swallow and the more competent crew that had captured West, returning from wherever their headquarters was. They recognized West immediately, saw their prisoner escaping on horseback and with a shout began to give chase.

Captain West and Captain Gordon wheeled their steeds about and galloped, not back toward the Confederate encampment, but onto a side road leading into a forested area. The horses couldn't move as swiftly here, but the trees closing in provided some cover and would slow Swallow and his men just as much. The captains urged their horses onward as fast as they could go, with leaves, branches whipping at their faces and limbs. Bullets began whistling through the air and thudding into trees around them. But the forest path they were taking began to widen near a clearing where it connected up with another main road. If they could make that, they'd still have a decent chance to escape. Both men were almost to the clearing when Captain Gordon's horse gave a whinny of alarm and went down.

Captain West saw Captain Gordon's mount fall. Captain Gordon went down with it, but managed to tumble away without injury. Both men had heard the horse's leg snap. It wouldn't be getting up again. The sounds of pursuit were coming closer. Captain West had already turned his horse back to pick up his fallen rescuer when more bullets came whistling toward them.

"No!" Captain Gordon shouted, gesturing for Captain West to keep going and leave him. "Go! Get out of here!" Captain Gordon drew his revolver and began firing back at their pursuers. "I'll hold them off! Go!"

What other choice did he have? West had his mission to carry out. He knew it. Captain Gordon obviously knew it. So Captain West turned his horse again and raced for the clearing and the new road, leaving Captain Gordon and the sounds of gunfire behind. Captain West was on a mission and he had to complete it. He _would_ complete it. But as he raced onto the new road alone, he thought that doing the right thing had never felt so cowardly, or so infuriating.


	3. Chapter 3 - The Decision

"You've done well, man," Major General Rosecrans told West several eternal hours later, rolling up the maps and classified plans that now had Captain West's vital information added to them.

"Have I?" West asked. He knew that the General meant it. The information West had gathered and brought back at such risk could be the key to winning at Stones River. The war had not begun well for the Union; every single victory that could be scraped from this bloodiest of conflicts was needed, and the nation's very survival was at stake. But the successful completion of his task felt hollow.

Rosecrans and the other commanding officers must have guessed what he was feeling. General Sheridan put a hand on the captain's still aching shoulder.

"You have, and you are to be commended." Sheridan's voice was soft. "Captain Gordon's loss is a blow, but he accomplished his objective as you have accomplished yours. He knew there was a good chance he wouldn't make it back. It was his choice."

 _Is that supposed to make me feel better?_ Captain West knew that it was, even if it didn't, so he nodded back and left the gathering of generals, his work done.

 _Captain Gordon's loss_ , West thought. That's how the generals saw it. In their minds, Gordon was dead or as good as dead already, which he might be. He had been sent in on a rescue mission for West because West had in his head the information they needed. But no such rescue was being planned for Captain Gordon. He'd done his duty and now he was being given up, discarded. It wasn't right.

West wasn't sure he could live with such a burden on his conscience. How did the generals manage it? Of course, the top brass had to manage worse – they diced with hundreds, thousands of lives, not just one or two. What was one mere captain to them? The thought continued to trouble him as he attempted to get some rest. His chafed wrists had been salved, he'd been given plenty to eat and drink since he'd reached the Union line and safety. But the food tasted like ashes in his mouth compared to the ham biscuit Captain Gordon had fed him.

 _That was the only thing I thanked him for . . . ._

More than one person had called Captain West 'the General's hero' since he'd arrived back alone a couple of hours ago. Where was Captain Gordon's hero now that he needed one? Captain West stared at the flap of tent material over his camp bed as a strange, daunting yet calming idea came to him and brought with it an icy resolve.

He knew.

[-]

"You asked to see me, Captain?" General Sheridan barely looked up from the maps he was studying as a corporal ushered Captain West into his presence. Major General Rosecrans was there too – good, that would make this easier. Now that his mission had been completed, West was back under Sheridan's command, but he'd need the approval of both, ideally, for what he had in mind.

"Yes," West began, mouth a little dry. He had never asked a favor from a commanding officer before, much less made demands. But he wasn't going to back down now. "You said earlier that I was to be commended, Sir. But there is something I would like to request other than a commendation."

Now Sheridan did look up. Officers and troops were often promised rewards or commendations, medals or promotions for their actions, but such promises were usually only a formality. They were rarely kept. Rarer still was the man in uniform who asked so boldly for a promised reward. Captain West saw he had both generals' attention.

"Yes?" General Sheridan asked cautiously.

Captain West stood as straight and as firm as possible.

"Request permission to reenter enemy territory for the purpose of liberating Captain Gordon, Sir!"

The generals stared at West in silence for several seconds. Then their expressions conveyed not outrage at his impudence, but pity.

"The other generals and I have discussed this, Captain," Rosecrans spoke first. "We've a major battle coming up as you know. We cannot commit the troops needed for such a mission."

"Not troops, Sir," West answered back. "Just me."

Now their faces changed to shocked incredulity. General Sheridan was almost slack-jawed.

"Good god, man – that would be suicide!" Sheridan exclaimed. "And we don't even know if Gordon is still alive!"

That _was_ a problem, but not one West was ready to yield to yet.

"I believe there's a good chance Captain Gordon is still alive, Sir. And if he is, then he is very likely being held at the same location where I was kept prisoner. A single man can slip in and out of the area much more easily than a group, as Captain Gordon has already proved." Captain West tried to keep his voice level. "Also, I know the territory."

General Sheridan appeared ready to protest again, but Major General Rosecrans silenced him with a gesture.

"I agree that such a maneuver sounds crazy, suicidal even," the Major General said, slowly considering. "Certainly unexpected. I know _I_ wasn't expecting such a request. I assume the rebels won't be either. But are you sure you want to do this, Captain West?"

"Very sure, Sir."

"But it's madness!" Sheridan spluttered.

"Useful madness if it causes a diversion for the enemy," Rosecrans pointed out. "Even more useful if Captain West succeeds."

"I intend to, Sir."

General Sheridan wasn't happy about it, but he nodded and began to give consideration to the idea also. Yes, the generals diced with men's lives. Now that they had the information they'd needed to get from him, what was one more captain? One more life to gamble? When Major General Rosecrans asked West to leave the room for a few minutes so that the two generals could discuss the request, West knew he'd won. He'd get what he wanted – permission to gallop back into hell. He could live with that, or die trying . . . .


	4. Chapter 4 - Different Tactics

The next dawn that Captain West saw felt even colder than the last – or was the chill imagined this time? After too-brief sleep and too-brief preparations, he set out. He rode for a couple of hours along a circuitous route, then left his horse loosely tied in the thickest part of the woods a half mile from the familiar and dreaded Confederate encampment. He would come back for the horse if he could, but for now he needed stealth more than anything, and two fresh mounts from the Confederates if he could steal them. At least he hoped he needed two. It still amazed him how swiftly after the attack on Fort Sumter, that a state he would once have been welcome in had become hostile foreign territory. But that's the way it was now. He was a Yankee, the hated enemy. So was Captain Gordon. Neither could expect any mercy from their former countrymen.

West was thankful for a tree line that ran so close to the rebel camp. He had no talent for disguise or acting, and his face was much too well known here. But he was good at moving silently, swiftly and finding every patch of concealment that a stand of trees could offer. Who knew those childhood games of hide-and-seek with his Indian friends might prove lifesaving someday? Like a quiet, spare patch of grayness, shadow by shadow he crept, tree to tree, until he reached his goal.

This close to the Union lines, the Confederates should have had regular sentries patrolling the entire perimeter of the camp. But West already knew they were sloppy about that. Even with Major Swallow and the tougher band of regulars on site, they were less than twenty men here and most of them not keen on anything that didn't involve fighting. Manual, menial tasks were being neglected on both sides in favor of 'saving up energy' and staying out of the December winds. As West drew closer, he saw the collection of tents and rough wooden fence being patrolled by the same sullen sentry he already knew too well. Snead had a bandage around his head from where he'd been conked, and probably a concussion to match. He should have been taken off sentry duty and replaced with someone uninjured, but he hadn't been. That could mean only that Snead was being punished for allowing West to escape and that Major Swallow didn't think the camp in any danger of attack at this time.

Did that also mean that Captain Gordon wasn't still alive, or wasn't here? Or did it mean Swallow thought (near correctly) that the Union Army wouldn't bother to rescue another one of its own?

Captain West could easily ambush the unsteady Snead and give him a second bump on the head; part of him dearly wanted to do that. But Snead's sullen perambulations would be missed if he did, and possibly alarm the camp. Better to evade the sentry for now and leave the Confederates with their false sense of security. West had no trouble dodging his way into the encampment's shabby horse stable without being seen. Once inside, he moved in his careful 'horse person' way so as not to alert the enemy with any neighs or whinnies from alarmed beasts. He'd always had a way with horses from the time he was a small child. He whispered to them reassuringly and looked over each one to see which two might be best suited to his purposes. Then he slipped through the shadows to the front stable door to peer out.

From this vantage point he could see all the way to the center of the camp. What he saw filled him with hope and dread. The pillory post he'd been kept tied to had a new occupant – Gordon? It was hard to tell. The man now lashed to the post had been bound facing inward with his arms stretched far above his head, not facing outward as West had been. Like West, he had been stripped of his shirt, leaving his upper body exposed to the cold. The prisoner had short, dark hair, not long, blond Custer-like locks. But Captain Gordon might have been wearing a theatrical wig and false beard and mustache. Hadn't his dark brown eyes hinted as much?

Major Swallow stood near the center of the camp too, surveying his new captive. Captain West felt his jaw clench in anger as he saw the smug, cruel expression on Swallow's face. He'd seen that look while a captive himself and still felt the same desire to erase it with his fists. But as with Snead, he couldn't let his temper get the better of him. He had to come up with a plan on the fly, not fly off the handle, and he needed to do it now. A short distance from where Swallow stood gloating, another Confederate was oiling up and flexing a nasty looking bullwhip. The pillory post was about to become a whipping post if West didn't find a way to stop them. How to free the prisoner without being caught again? West had an idea, but did he have enough time?

Slipping back into the darkness of the stable, Captain West quickly and silently saddled two of the horses and plotted the next move in his mind. He needed to get to a tent on the far side of the camp, an area distant enough from this stable. Once there, he had the means to create a diversion that would get the whole camp's attention and give him a fighting chance to free the captive. But that diversion wouldn't be immediate. West had to move and move fast. Giving the supplies he'd brought with him a quick check, he made sure Snead wasn't there to observe him and dashed to the back of the nearest tent, then to the next tent, and the next and the next.

Luck was with West – and maybe with the prisoner – as West made his way around the camp without being seen and without hearing the crack of a bullwhip coming from the direction of the pillory yet. West's eyes narrowed as he saw the kind of target he was looking for – a tent larger and slightly grander than the rest. It had to be Major Swallow's. West knew for a certainty that Swallow wasn't in it, and if anyone deserved a housewarming . . . . With a tight-lipped, grim grin, West listened to discover if anyone else was inside – his hearing was acute – and once satisfied, he slipped within.

It was the Major's tent all right, judging by the furnished interior. West would have loved to search it, but there wasn't a minute to spare. If there _was_ one thing he knew he'd find, however, it was an oil lamp. Practically any officer's tent had at least one. Swallow's was large and it would do beautifully. West lifted off the lamp's glass chimney, lifted up the metal cover holding the wick, and took out one of the cheap, thin cigars he'd brought for an express purpose that wasn't smoking. The cigar was of a particular, poor and detestable make, and that gave it the exact qualities he needed. He and some of his fellow soldiers, out of boredom, had made quite a study of these cigars. The cigs barely lasted a couple of bad-tasting minutes if smoked, but even if not smoked, once lit they would burn all the way down by themselves in five minutes' time. They were so consistent in this that West had realized what handy time-delayed fuses they could make, and he'd experimented to that end.

Lighting a match, Captain West gave the awful cigar an initial puff to get it going, then inserted it butt-end first into the oil lamp's reservoir so that it made just enough contact with the surface of the oil inside. He pulled several flammable items of the tent's owner close to this improvised fire bomb and slipped out the back of the tent again. He saw an opportunity for a finishing touch too. The tent, like many important but flammable facilities, had a bucket and a small rain barrel next to it. West took out the whiskey flask of kerosene he'd brought with him and poured it across the surface of the water, where it formed a thick, clear slick. Any attempt to put out _this_ fire was going to be . . . interesting.

Deed done, West continued to make his way around the camp, only to nearly run into a potential obstacle – Snead. The sentry, back turned, was blocking his path and West couldn't afford a delay now. He had no choice but to do as he wished and give the sentry that second lump on the head this time. He caught Snead as he fell and lowered the unconscious rebel to the ground. No one in the camp saw or heard. West, sneaking in to get a better view saw why: those who had been willing to leave the comfort of shelter were eager to watch the afternoon's prearranged entertainment.

The Confederate who'd been greasing and flexing the bullwhip was standing about ten feet from the prisoner's exposed back now, getting ready to begin the torture. The only thing staying his hand was Major Swallow, who evidently had not given the order yet and was still standing in front of the bound man, taunting him.

As he inched closer, West got a much better view and could hear the conversation. Yes, the prisoner was Captain Gordon all right. West recognized the baritone voice that was telling Major Swallow to go to hell. He also heard the weariness in that voice and saw the bruises that stood out on Captain Gordon's body. West had a fresh collection of those himself, but the knowledge that another man had been beaten in his place made him furious. Listening to Swallow describe to his prisoner how he was about to be flayed of every inch of skin sickened the young captain. The cigar now seemed to be taking an eternity to do its work.

"Look," Captain Gordon said to his tormentor, "you know I'm not going to talk, so why don't you just finish me off and get it over with?"

 _No!_ West shouted mentally. _Don't give up hope now!_

But it was Major Swallow who obviously wasn't giving up hope – of sadism at least.

"We'll see," the malicious Major hissed.

Swallow strode off to one side, clearing the way for the flogging to begin. He raised his arm to give the command. The man holding the whip drew it back and-

"Fire!" someone yelled and clanged a bell in another part of the camp. "Fire!" A black column of smoke was rising as the sabotaged oil lamp did its work.

The response was everything Captain West had hoped for. The Major's attention turned away to the direction that he knew held _his_ belongings and all thoughts of the prisoner were replaced by this new threat. The Major barked a different order than the one he'd intended to give and the entire company went running in the direction of the blaze. West, still unobserved, raced up to the pillory post and began cutting free the prisoner with a knife he'd already drawn for the purpose.

"You!" Captain Gordon's brown eyes went wide with shock and alarm as he recognized his rescuer. "But you've got to deliver your information to-"

"Already did," West assured him as Gordon's arms came free from their bonds. "General Rosecrans has it, mission complete." He helped the stiff and sore man down as Gordon had helped him the day before - was it really only yesterday? "I came back to return the favor."

With only a few seconds for a hurried explanation, Captain West led Gordon to the stable and the two horses he'd saddled for them. For good measure, West loosed _all_ of the horses before mounting the one he'd chosen for himself. The shouts, crackling sounds of flame and smell of smoke ensured that he and Gordon rode out amidst a general stampede. If the enemy wanted to catch them now, they'd have to do it on foot.

"Much obliged, Captain West!" Gordon yelled over to him as they galloped into the thick of the Tennessee woodlands.

"Anytime, Captain Gordon!" West yelled back. His heart was pounding like the horses' hooves, but this time joyfully. They'd done it! They were away! West could hear no sounds of pursuit behind them this time. Several minutes' ride confirmed it. They were free!

They were . . . lost?


	5. Chapter 5 - Baled Out

The captains both slowed their horses as the early, sudden darkness of December began to close in around them in these woods. They had to have taken a wrong turn somewhere – they should have come across West's other horse in this forest by now . . . shouldn't they? West thought he knew the territory, as he'd told General Sheridan. But either his horse had been moved, or the landmarks rearranged, or . . . .

"I don't know where we are," West admitted.

"I'm not sure I do either," Captain Gordon said, wrapping his bare arms around his equally bare chest and starting to shiver in the cold. West cursed himself for his own lack of consideration and took off his jacket to give to Gordon. At least West still had his shirt and vest to keep him warm. Captain Gordon must be freezing by now as well as exhausted. And come to think of it, West was pretty tired himself. Is that what had thrown them off?

"We'd better find shelter," he said, watching as his words condensed a cloud of steam in front of his face. Soon it would be so dark that they and their horses wouldn't be able to see two feet ahead. They'd have to wait until daylight to find their way back into friendly territory. They'd also have to endure the cold without lighting a fire that could attract the wrong sort of attention. West had lit a big enough fire today.

The two men rode on wearily, looking for a place they could conceal themselves and the horses. West should have been scared enough by their predicament to be wide awake, but he'd never been good at the whole fear thing and was struggling not to nod off in the saddle. Gordon appeared to be having the same problem.

 _But we can't stop now._

They'd both gotten through so much already, surely they would get through this. No one said it would be easy.

The night was closing in and both men were shivering, when the horses emerged from the woods and they saw a field with some flimsy open sheds and a large hay wagon piled high with hay. If there was a farmhouse nearby, no light was visible from it in the darkness. But shelter – any shelter – would do, and this might just be the answer to their prayers.

"Do you see what I see?" Captain West asked.

"Barely," Gordon answered blearily. On their last legs, the two men dismounted, tied up the horses a short way into the woods and brought them some of the hay. Then the captains tunneled their way into the hay wagon's massive load, leaving enough of a gap for them to breathe through and move around in. It wouldn't make for the most comfortable of beds, but it would be warm enough and keep them concealed while they got a few hours of sleep. Before dropping off, they shared West's canteen of water and the meagre rations he'd carried with him. Captain Gordon was as thirsty and ravenous as West had been the day before, but refused to take more than half so that West could keep up his strength. Watching the man restrain himself rather than give in to his own needs, West felt a growing respect for this unusual officer.

 _How could I have so misjudged him before I ever even met him?_ West asked himself ruefully. He was going to have to be less blinded by his prejudices and become a better actual observer from now on.

Soon the darkness became so absolute that the two men, side by side, couldn't even see each other anymore. Aching and exhausted, Captain West allowed himself to drift downward into a deep, deep sleep . . . .

The hard bump jolted him awake – so hard that it almost sent him and Captain Gordon tumbling through the whole straw pile. The two captains jostled against one another trying to sit up in the hay storm as the hollow they'd made collapsed around them, making it harder to see or breathe. Burrowing upward, Captain West made it to the top of the cartload but kept his head down lest anyone hostile see it sticking out. Above the hay it was no longer dark or dawn – it was full daylight. How long had they slept? After a few seconds Captain Gordon joined him in peering up at the sky, the same question on his face. They both became stock still in position as they heard voices coming from somewhere down below them and off to one side. Eventually the voices receded and they felt free to move again. But there were no chances they'd be able to exit the cart or retrieve their horses in concealing pre-dawn darkness now.

"They must be hooking the cart up to take it somewhere," Captain Gordon whispered. "We'd better be prepared to jump for it."

West felt emboldened enough to wriggle up and get a better view. What he saw nearly took his breath away.

"No, I don't think so," he whispered back to Gordon. "The cart didn't jolt because it's about to start."

Gordon now pulled himself up beside and saw what West saw. The farm field with the rickety sheds and nearby tree line was nowhere in evidence.

"It jolted because it stopped."


	6. Chapter 6 - Changed Men

"Out of the frying pan and into . . . ." Captain Gordon murmured as he and Captain West inched their way along a shadowy space between two large buildings as they headed for a stable. Sooner or later – probably sooner – the hay from the wagon was going to be unloaded, and they had a shared aversion to pitchforks. Captain West and Captain Gordon were finding they had a lot of other things in common. They were sharing hunger, thirst, one full set of clothing and a similar aversion to getting captured or killed. And they were lost – very, very, very lost. But the stable, if they could reach it, might provide them with a more secure hiding place, and hopefully a source of water and another pair of mounts on which they could escape.

 _This is ridiculous_ , Captain West thought. _I have really got to stop misplacing horses!_ Of course, it was he and Gordon who had been misplaced. But West was going to have to find a horse someday that could be trained to take care of itself in an emergency and survive having a reckless owner like him.

The stable he and Gordon made their way into was large, but fortunately inhabited only by a few horses and no humans at that moment. Even more fortunately, it was equipped with a hand pump and the two refugees could at last quench their thirst and refill Captain West's canteen. They'd need food too, and more (and warmer) clothing, but it was a welcome start.

"I must say, Captain West," Gordon pulled an umpteenth piece of hay from his dark hair, "while the fine establishment we stayed in provided an even more restful sleep than I expected, I find the breakfast accommodations somewhat lacking."

West couldn't help but smile a little.

"I agree," he said. "I don't think I'm going to be recommending it to anyone."

Crouching down in any of the empty partitions would provide a risky concealment at best. This large horse barn, unlike the dank, makeshift stable in the Confederate camp they'd escaped from, had an upper story with window openings that let in plenty of light. It was also both big enough and neat enough to indicate that it wouldn't lack for other visitors for long. But there was a ladder leading up to a loft that might provide both a more secure hiding place and a better vantage point from which they could look out and get their bearings.

They climbed up after looking around for any small items they might find useful. West still had his gun, a limited supply of ammunition, his knife, the canteen of water, an empty metal flask that reeked of kerosene, more of the cheap cigars and some matches and not much else. Captain Gordon had almost nothing, but their search of the stable turned up another knife, a rope, a second canteen which they filled, a rough workman's shirt and some objects which Captain Gordon pocketed for no good reason West could discern: a lump of charcoal, some talc, a curry comb, a small pot of glue, some boot polish and a rag, a bowl and a bit of hair that he cut off of a horse's mane. The James West of three days ago might have thought he was with a crazy man who wanted these useless things, but the James West of today reserved his judgement. Captain Gordon was a shrewd and effective operator. If he took these objects it must be for a purpose. After all, wasn't Captain West turning bad cigars into firebomb fuses?

They found, once up in the loft, that the windows they could see out of provided a limited view – they could see what was on three sides of the building, but not whatever might be directly behind the stable. West didn't recognize any of it and neither did Gordon. They still had absolutely no idea where they were, other than probably still in Tennessee. Depending on how long they'd slept and when exactly the hay cart had been hitched and started moving, they might be halfway to Tullahoma by now. But the part of the surroundings they could see appeared to be a small village of some sort, and judging by the C.S.A. uniforms they saw a number of men down below wearing, they were much deeper into enemy territory than they'd started out.

"Sorry I got you into this mess," Captain Gordon murmured.

"You didn't. _I'm_ sorry I didn't do as good a job rescuing you as you did me."

Captain Gordon laughed.

"It was wonderful, believe me! I wasn't looking forward to getting skinned alive! We just have to practice our long distance getaway techniques more. Speaking of which . . . ."

Captain Gordon immediately hunched down and began spreading out the strange assortment of small objects he'd carried up to the loft with him. As Captain West watched, fascinated, Gordon poured a small amount of water into the bowl, looked down into it and began twitching his facial features this way and that. He wasn't trying his hand at some sort of bizarre water scrying fortune telling method. He was using his reflection in the shallow bit of water as a mirror, West realized. West saw Gordon pick up the curry comb, use it to part his wavy, dark hair in the middle and brush it down flat on either side of the part. Then he took the talc and began rubbing it into his hair in a couple of places to give himself the grayish, whitish streaks of someone much older. Before West's eyes, Captain Gordon began a fantastic transformation using only the objects he had at hand – powder from the charcoal to give his face a swarthier, filthier appearance, gritty teeth and darker circles under his eyes. With some help from the glue, the talc and his knife to cut the hairs short, the bit of horse's mane became a dark, then salt and pepper mustache to complement the natural stubble already growing in. Using the water's reflection, Gordon began practicing a series of facial expressions before settling on one that was leering, crude and sarcastic. He turned that expression on West and the younger captain had to refrain from gasping in alarm. If he hadn't watched this metamorphosis happen with his own eyes, West would have sworn he was now with a complete stranger.

 _How the hell did he do that?_

Then Captain Gordon cracked a far more friendly smile, and picked up the rag and the container of glue as he came closer to West.

"Okay, now your turn," he said.

"What?" West asked, embarrassed that his shock must be showing.

"Major Swallow will be spreading the alarm about us," Captain Gordon explained patiently. "He'll be giving the rebel command our description, so we have to make sure we don't match that if we're going to get away. Come here and I'll give you a scar."

West backed away fast. He knew he'd been gifted with good looks and he'd always been rather proud of them.

"Not a _real_ scar," Gordon sighed. "I promise it will only be made of glue and some polish and will wear off in a couple of days. Honest!"

West blushed with shame at his own naivete and, summoning his courage as best he could, sat as still as possible while Captain Gordon made a new man out of him. The glue began itching almost as soon as soon as it was applied in a long streak to one of West's cheeks. West couldn't help but twitch that side of his face a little.

"Excellent!" Gordon said, dabbing on a bit of polish and charcoal dust. "Make sure you scratch it once in a while when it dries too. That's what a person with a real scar like that might do. We're going for authenticity here."

West squinched his eyes shut as Captain Gordon darkened his eyebrows with boot polish and then, using the rag, began to do the same to his hair, making it stickier and clumpier and not neat the way West liked it. When the procedure was all over and Gordon pronounced himself satisfied with the result, West was reluctant to gaze at his reflection in the bowl of water. He didn't want to see a stranger staring back at him.

"Relax, Captain," Gordon reassured him. "Assuming we can make it out of here to the Northern side, you'll be back to your handsome self in no time."

Something in the way Gordon said it made West start to wonder if others were carrying preconceptions about him the same way he had of others. Captain Gordon didn't think he was a pretty boy narcissist like Captain Custer, did he?

West didn't have a chance to ask as they both heard someone entering the stable down below. They flattened themselves against the loft flooring and waited until the sound receded again. They were fortunate not to have been heard because as soon as they were in the flat position, both of their stomachs had started rumbling. Water could satisfy their needs just so far. They were going to have to take their chances in the village below finding something to eat before the day was out.

"I have an idea," Captain Gordon suggested as he and West watched people walking around the village down below through one of the windows. "We'll be vagrant French laborers from Louisiana looking for work. Think you can pretend to be hard of hearing and a bit dim and let me do most of the talking?"

West had no trouble feeling a bit dim at that moment. He'd never considered how hard, or how useful, acting might be, but their lives were dependent on it now and he was content to let Captain Gordon take the lead. Fighting was the younger man's real forte. The last bit of difficulty they had to attend to before leaving the stable was hiding West's gun and ammunition under his jacket. Captain Gordon had donned the cheap workman's shirt and West's vest, which didn't quite fit him, while West took back the jacket over his plain shirt. The gun belt and holster slung awkwardly underneath the shirt, West considered the idea that there had to be an easier way somehow, but for now it would have to do. With the coast cleared, they emerged from the stable with a complete change of appearance from the two men who'd gone in. Gordon fastened that unsettling, cynical, vulgar expression back on his face, assumed a hunched-over, slightly bow-legged way of walking and West, desperately trying to act, sauntered alongside as they went in search of food.


	7. Chapter 7 - Bragg's Bounty

A first meal of the day didn't prove as hard to find as they'd expected, but it was clearly lunch for everyone else instead of breakfast. There were other laborers in this town lined up to receive portions of bread and stew from a group of women handing them out under the semi-watchful eyes of a foreman wrapped up in his own scarf and overcoat. The foreman was more interested in blowing on his hands and rubbing them together to warm them up than he was in watching who had showed up for work or a feed and West and Gordon had no trouble slipping into the line. They ate like starved rascals, but so did everybody on the crew. All too soon, the food was gone and the laborers were lining up to be led somewhere else.

 _Now what?_ Captain West wanted to ask, but he wasn't about to open his mouth yet. He could speak at least a bit of French, but he didn't know how amateurish it would sound coming out of his mouth.

 _Now we earn our keep_ , Gordon's eyes appeared to tell him, nodding in approval at his silence. Neither man knew where they were going, but an opportunity for surveillance was not to be missed. The line appeared to be heading in the direction behind the big stable that they hadn't been able to survey from the loft, so even if they had to put in a few hours of some sort of work, it would be worth it. If they got another meal into the bargain at the end of it, all the better. Captain Gordon had resumed his bow-legged gait and Captain West slouched along, trying to remember if that was the standard walk he'd been using when coming out of the stable. Pretending to be someone he wasn't took a surprising amount of effort.

" _Sacre mer-!"_ West heard Gordon whisper as the work column rounded a corner of the stable, passed through the space between a couple of outbuildings.

Behind the stable, behind the outbuildings, was a sight that made West widen his eyes too. The largest tent he had ever seen was erected in the field they were facing, and it appeared to be but one tent, with a couple of others behind it. Their size, however, was not the most alarming thing. What truly gave both officers pause was what those tents were covering. Stretched out before the two captains and the other workmen was what appeared to be a boundless assortment of armaments of almost every kind – stands of rifles, boxes of bullets, stacks of cannon balls, barrels of black powder, bayonets . . . . a Satan's supper of destruction, all earmarked for the C.S.A. That was just in the first tent – who knew what the other tents might be covering? West and Gordon had all they could do not to gawk at the spectacle. None of the other laborers were gawking. The tents were apparently not their final destination.

The column of workmen was led past the display of weaponry and ammunition, which was guarded by surprisingly few uniformed soldiers, West noted, and toward a large barn rather more heavily guarded. Captain Gordon's earlier comment about 'out of the frying pan' might be all too apt, West thought, as he and Gordon tramped into the building with the rest through a doorway with Army of Tennessee soldiers stationed on either side. Into the lion's den a better metaphor perhaps? But no lion's den smelled like the enclosed space they entered into. Suddenly, West felt almost as if someone had taken the cheap cigars from his inner pocket and rammed them up his nostrils.

 _Are they kidding me?_ he thought as he saw where he and the other laborers were expected to put in their hours that afternoon.

West had never been inside a commercial tobacco factory before, but he was aghast and hard-pressed not to show it as he saw what the heavily guarded barn concealed. Not cannon, not a gun manufactory, not precious, irreplaceable medicine or food stores.

Tobacco. Lots and lots of tobacco . . . .

Cigars. They were going to be spending their afternoon making cigars.

 _They really have got to be kidding me!_

Fortunately, the workmen were directed to take up several different positions in what was evidently one very big tobacco processing plant. He and Gordon should be able to find a spot here where they could confer without being overheard. Without speaking at all, they allowed themselves to be led through the big operation to an overstuffed row of baskets filled with uncut leaf to be unloaded. The leaves must have been grown that summer, then dried and cured, and now a ragtag assortment of vagrant workers was expected to assemble them into an end product. West didn't see any slave labor being used to do the work – that might be a good sign that they were still close enough to Union lines and the Nashville turnpike to have an escape route. Thousands of slaves had already fled to the East and the North through rocky ground and cedar trees toward freedom. It wasn't impossible for two stranded captains to do it either. But as for the weapons cache they'd just seen . . . .

What good would warning Major General Rosecrans about it do? The Union Army of the Cumberland was headed South, but they'd never be able to reach such a supply or destroy the weapons horde before the Confederates could get it moved or arm themselves with it. _Unless someone else destroyed it first . . . ._

West's train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a loud belch and a wheezing, hoarse cough from Captain Gordon – or rather, from whatever character he was playing. A few of the other workmen drew away from them as Gordon wheezed again, scratched under one armpit, and hocked a gob of spit onto the earthen floor of the barn. Even a Confederate soldier stationed in a corner of the barn appeared eager to keep his distance as Gordon got to work unloading baskets with his bow-legged shuffle, unnerving leer and tendency to scratch himself on full display. When West hesitated to join in the labor, Gordon fetched him a light slap on the side of the head and told him in heavily accented French patois that he was an idiot and should get to work. West pretended to be slow to understand before he complied while making some snorting sounds and itching as though he had lice and within minutes they were working along their section of the row with all the privacy they needed.

"Good to be popular, isn't it?" Gordon whispered when he was sure they couldn't be overheard. "You're doing a nice job, by the way – keep it up."

West wasn't interested in being praised for his ability to act like an offensive moron, though.

"Those weapons . . . ."

"I saw them," Gordon nodded, with a frown. "Enough of them to kill a whole lot of our boys, aren't there?"

"Not if we can find a way to take them out ourselves."

"And here I thought I'd arranged for _you_ to play the one who was hard of hearing!" Gordon shook his head and scratched at one ear. "I could have sworn I just heard you say-"

"You _did_ hear me say it," West whispered back. "We have to destroy that whole cache while it's all in one place. We might never have a better opportunity."

"If you view early death as an opportunity! Us and what army, Captain? In case you're forgetting, there's only two of us and rather a lot of them."

"Each one of us working alone was enough to trick Major Swallow's entire camp, right? So if the two of us work together, we've practically got them outnumbered." West's eyes narrowed and he resumed his mute idiot act for a few seconds while a C.S.A. regular patrolled nearby. Captain Gordon began hacking and sneezing and scratching again for good measure until the disgusted soldier wandered elsewhere. "Besides, there's something interesting I have to tell you about the properties of some cigars . . . ."


	8. Chapter 8 - Hard Truths

"Remind me never to work for a living again," Captain Gordon grumbled to West several hours later over another chunk of bread and bowl of stew. "It's much too tiring."

West grinned agreement around a mouthful of his own supper. He would never have expected it, but he was really beginning to like – not just respect – Captain Gordon. Up until this experience, he'd tended to think of his fellow Union officers as rivals, antagonists, inferiors or superiors. Captain Gordon was none of those things. What he was, West realized, is someone whom he, James West, would like to call a friend. West didn't have many of those. The demands he constantly made of himself, and consequently of others, had made it difficult to form friendships. Yet here was a man who was no less brave than West, in spite of his earlier protest, no less dutiful to his country, not one whit less clever – indeed, West thought _he_ might be the one found wanting in that department. They had completely different skill sets and personalities, but as West was discovering, that wasn't a bad thing. Yes, he would like to be friends with this very unconventional soldier, if they lived long enough.

Tonight the early darkness would be both a help and a hindrance in that goal. They'd only worked in the tobacco factory for half a day and that on _too_ good a sleep the night before, so they weren't as exhausted as the other tramp laborers who must have been at it since sunrise. They'd be able to slip away from the group easily enough when the rest had dropped off. Then their real work would begin, sneaking back to the horse barn and its loft so that West could climb onto the roof and get a clearer look at just how big a problem they were dealing with. As clear a look as the lanterns down below would give him, anyway. They needed to get the full lay of the land, and there would be little hope of doing that in daylight. Climbing onto a high roof in the dark, in enemy territory, in icy weather was a ridiculously dangerous stunt. So much so that West hoped, like his rescue of Captain Gordon, it would have the virtue of being unexpected.

Minutes ticked by with interminable slowness after supper was finished and the workmen bedded down for the night in a crude, earthen-floored shed. West and Gordon, in the social skunk personas they'd adopted, took up a coveted sleeping spot near the door. It was chillier than the rest of the interior, but also more open to fresh air. Inside the relatively small space, the stench of unwashed, sweat and tobacco-stained bodies was incredible. To West's reassurance, the semi-open doorway wasn't guarded and the workmen weren't being treated like prisoners. The labor force was free to come and go for purposes of relieving themselves. That made slipping away easier. When nearly the entire mob was fast asleep and the sound of snores, snorts and other bodily functions covered any noise they might make, Gordon went out first and a few minutes later West followed.

They had no trouble reaching the horse barn without being seen. West was astonished at how few sentries were stationed at areas he would have considered vital in a time of war. Horses left unguarded? More soldiers stationed around a cigar manufacturing operation than the weapons caches? The commander of the Confederate forces, General Braxton Bragg, had some very strange priorities.

"He sure does," Captain Gordon told West as they made their way back into the loft where they could talk freely. "I've been working mostly intelligence in Kansas and Kentucky, and Bragg's a character all right – luckily for our side. He seems to be more interested in hoarding supplies than in fighting. He retreated from the battle at Perrysville even though he had the advantage." Gordon looked out one of the loft windows and frowned. "We must be in or near Murfreesboro and I'll bet that huge stockpile is what he brought back with his army intact. Plus whatever booty he and his troops have been looting from our side on the Nashville turnpike."

"And we've got to put a dent in as much of it as we can while he's busy protecting his tobacco business," West said.

"Speaking of the tobacco business," Captain Gordon regarded him quizzically, "I believe you had something you were going to tell me about the properties of certain cigars?"

West pulled out one of the cheap, thin cigars he'd used to turn Major Swallow's oil lamp into a fire bomb and the empty, kerosene-scented whiskey flask and explained what he'd done. Captain Gordon listened to the whole story and by the end of it he was holding onto his sides and struggling not to laugh.

"Oh my!" he exclaimed as softly as he could. "That is so devious and clever I'm ashamed I didn't come up with it myself!" He shook his head. "I must say, you have some unexpected sides to you, Captain West."

"As do you, Captain Gordon," West admitted. But there it was again, he thought. The uncomfortable idea that other people had as many assumptions about him as he did of them, and that those might not be all that flattering. "Ah, what _do_ people say about me?"

Captain Gordon sobered up and gave West a piercing look.

"Do you really want to know?"

 _No._

"Yes."

Captain Gordon sighed.

"Welllll . . . ." he said slowly, "word around the regular ranks is that you are an arrogant, temperamental, wet-behind-the-ears showoff."

West clenched his hands and opened his mouth to protest, but then stopped himself. He thought about the person he had been just two scant days ago. The young hotshot who held low opinions of officers he had never even met. He wasn't sure he still knew that person, or wanted to.

"That's . . . fair, I guess," he said at last.

"Not really." Captain Gordon shook his head again. "I'd take talk like that with a grain of salt if I were you. It never tells the whole picture, useful a source as gossip sometimes is. I might go with the temperamental part . . . ."

West unclenched his fists.

"And if we succeed in pulling off this whole destroy-the-weapons scheme, I'll happily accuse us both of being showoffs and feel entitled to a little arrogance myself. As for the wet-behind-the-ears thing I can't see that at all," Captain Gordon shrugged. "You're what – at least twenty?"

"Twenty and a half."

"I stand corrected." Captain Gordon gave him a slight bow. "Don't feel bad. You should hear some of the rumors they say about me. In fact – I'm sure you do. I went to an awful lot of trouble planting a few of them."

 _He what?_

"It doesn't hurt to be underestimated in our line of work," Gordon added.

West had never even considered that possibility.

"Do you actually play the violin?"

"Yes – and very well too," Captain Gordon told him. "Is it true you can shoot a silver dollar off the weathervane of the tallest barn in Baltimore?"

So _that_ story was still getting around . . . .

"Yes . . . ."

"So now that that's settled, shall we get on with it? If you're really willing to-"

West didn't need to be invited twice. Climbing onto the icy barn roof in hostile territory in the dark seemed like a piece of cake compared to facing hard personal truths, although Gordon had tried to find a way to make those go down easy. Arrogant, temperamental, wet-behind-the-ears showoff, eh? Well if that's what people thought of him, he could at least be the _best_ arrogant, temperamental, wet-behind-the-ears showoff in the Union Army. He certainly wasn't going to let Custer take the prize on that one.

It occurred to West that he still hadn't technically thanked Captain Gordon for anything except the ham biscuit. He'd have to remember to correct that when he got the chance. In the meantime, he had more than enough to worry about as he grabbed for a handhold on the sharp edge of the horse barn's trim. Gordon took up nearly as precarious a position leaning out the barn window and bracing himself to catch West if he started to fall.

West didn't fall or slip. He swung himself up onto the roof and landed with the grace and silence of a cat.

One good thing to be said for the weather – it might be unusually cold for a December in Tennessee, but tonight was crystal clear. He and Gordon hadn't had to contend with rain or snow, just the chill. And that chill meant that as West flattened himself and looked out to see the view, he had more light than he could have hoped for. Numerous campfires as well as lanterns illuminated the area spread out below him.

The situation was bad, but not as bad as he first feared. When he'd seen the great tent full of weapons and other tents behind it, he had imagined an endless stretch of them, all of identical size and equally fearsome contents. But the large tent and its weapons cache was companioned only by two others and they were smaller. A finite set of targets then, but still with a daunting military presence. West made a careful count of the number and location of all the lanterns and campfires he could see. He also counted the number of moving and stationary troops he could see. Judging by the limited area he could view beyond the tents and past the tobacco barn, Captain Gordon had been right – they were in or near Murfreesboro, where the Confederates would be making their stand. Not a good place to be if you were Union. But what was life without a few challenges after all?

Swinging back down from the roof safely once he'd committed the scene to memory was harder than climbing up had been, but again Captain Gordon was there to keep him from falling. He was glad to have Gordon's help pulling himself back in through the opening now that his fingers were numb from the cold.

"We make a pretty good team, Captain," he said while blowing on his hands to warm them up once back inside.

"Please, call me Artemus," his new team-mate insisted. "If we're going to be suicidally insane for our country, we should at least be on a first name basis."

"James," West said, holding one of his still chilly hands out with a smile.

"Pleased to meet you, James," Artemus said, giving it a firm shake.

"Same here, Artemus."

After that, they had precious little time to slip out of the horse barn and back to the smelly shed to sleep closed in with the rest of the workers. They knew the layout now, which West sketched out for Artemus, but they needed another day to plan for what would be a very risky night-time sabotage mission. At least they could get a few, potentially last hours of sleep before what was going to be one of the most tiring and dangerous days of their lives.


	9. Chapter 9 - Almost Smoked Out

"ATTEN-SHUN!"

A clanging bell had been rung not long after work had begun for the day at the cigar assembly. The two covert captains had begun on a repeat of the previous day's performance, making themselves unsavory enough to be left in the privacy of one of the back rows of the tobacco shed. But what was happening now apparently wasn't part of any regular routine. A small group of Confederate soldiers armed with rifles had entered the front of the building and with them, one uniformed officer that both men recognized.

"Swallow," Artemus whispered. "I knew they'd be looking for us, but I didn't think he'd be doing it personally."

"We must just be his favorite people," West whispered back. "Think our disguises will work?"

"Mine will." Artemus frowned at West. "Yours, I don't know." Artemus smeared some extra streaks of tobacco dust on West's face and he had to struggle not to sneeze. "Half of it is acting and there isn't time to teach you now. Good thing you're a natural."

They both crouched down in hopes of not being spotted, but from behind the baskets of tobacco leaves, they saw Major Swallow, accompanied by the soldiers, inspecting each of the workers one at a time. Some – the too old, the too fat, the too thin, the taller or shorter ones – were dismissed by Swallow without a second glance. Others, those with builds and ages nearly equal to West and Gordon's, were being given far more scrutiny and forced to take their shirts off so Swallow could inspect their arms and upper bodies. West was puzzled at first, but then he remembered the bruises he and Captain Gordon had acquired and he suddenly felt the still red, still warm welts on his wrists, upper arms and chest where he'd rubbed himself raw trying to escape the ropes that had held him to the pillory. Application of salve had eased the pain of them, but they weren't healed. Those welts would still be very visible and that had to be what the detestable Major was looking for. Artemus knew it too.

"When they get to us," he whispered to West, "don't be alarmed for real by what I do and don't take your shirt off. Remember, you're a dimwit and hard of hearing. I'm going to create a distraction. Follow my lead and be sure to act the opposite of your normal self."

West had to figure out what Artemus meant by that all too quickly as Major Swallow and the Confederates approached their section of the tobacco barn. If Swallow recognized him at all, the game was up. He pretended not to hear or notice the Confederates approaching and kept his pseudo-scarred face, fixed with as moronic an expression as he could manage, turned away from them while seemingly buried in the task of unloading dried tobacco leaves. Behind him, he heard Artemus spitting, snuffling, belching and scratching himself while also doing something with the tobacco leaves. Artemus began muttering imprecations in what West assumed was Cajun French as the Major, still a distance away, ordered the two of them to take their shirts off. West kept feigning deafness while trying to watch what was one impressive drama performance with his head slumped all the way down, glancing behind himself under his armpit. Artemus Gordon, swearing a bit louder and shaking his talc-and-charcoal mustached, aged-looking head pulled the loose work shirt up over his shoulders, turning it inside out so that the inverted sleeves remained covering his own reddened wrists.

"Well?" one of the Confederate soldiers asked Swallow.

West had to hand it to Captain Gordon for ingenuity. In just the few seconds he'd had to get ready, Artemus had apparently used his self-scratching routine to so thoroughly cover his torso in dark brown tobacco dust that none of his bruises were visible. He was also somehow sticking his gut out so that he appeared to have a bit of a pot belly forming instead of his actual healthy build – the man must be a bit of a contortionist. With hia bow-legged stance, rude behavior and nasty, leering expression to complete the picture, he looked (as well as sounded and smelled) nothing like the gallant prisoner Swallow had been tormenting two days earlier.

"Not that one," Swallow grudgingly admitted. "Now let's see the other."

West pretended not to hear as he kept right on shuffling tobacco leaves out of the basket. Just as one of the soldiers was about to lay a hand on him to make him comply, Artemus shoved the soldier aside coarsely and fetched West a clout on the ear.

"Espèce de _!" Artemus shouted at him in heavily accented French before rapping lightly on the top of West's skull with his knuckles.

 _Act the opposite of myself, huh?_

Normally West's first instinct in a situation like this would be to deck his abuser and start a fight – he wasn't a man to take such abuse or insult lying down. So in these circumstances he began cringing and whimpering incoherently, pretending not to understand as he crouched and tried to defend himself from Artemus, keeping his face as covered by his arms as possible. He wasn't sure he knew how to make himself the picture of an idiotic coward, but he had to try his best. And despite what Artemus had told him earlier about not being alarmed for real by anything Artemus did, West had no trouble feigning a look of genuine alarm when his fellow captain not only continued to shout at him in French but drew a knife to threaten him as well. West dropped to all fours, covered his head on the ground and moaned and blubbered piteously.

"Never mind," he was rewarded to hear Swallow say in disgust. "Not that one either."

To West's relief, the Major and the soldiers turned around and marched away. He and Artemus must have been the last workers to be given the once over, and now the inspection team was leaving convinced that the fugitives were not to be found here. Artemus put away his knife and gave West a hand up from the dirt floor.

"That was beautiful!" Artemus whispered to West, the leer on his face now replaced with the more familiar jovial expression. "I'm not going to tell you to audition for Pocket yet, but I think you've got the makings of a real sneak!"

"From you I'll take that as a compliment," West whispered back. He did, too. Yes, acting had its uses all right.

As did strategy. With the immediate danger of pursuit averted, the two captains had the rest of the day to pretend to exhaust themselves while actually spending much of their assigned work shift planning their next moves for that night. West didn't have enough of the cheap cigars to set blazes in every corner of the large weapons tent they'd seen, but if he and Artemus could obtain a couple of rebel guards' uniforms, as well as take their places guarding the tent, they'd succeed in setting off a good portion of the munitions. Artemus liked West's other technique of sabotaging the rain barrels with a top layer of flammable liquid to spread the fires too. If all went as planned, it was going to be a hot time in the old town tonight. They might just put a serious crimp in Braxton Braggs' weapons' supply and save a lot of Union lives while creating enough havoc to allow for their escape. Well, Major General Rosecrans _had_ wanted West to create a diversion . . . .

For the matter of how they were going to get the Confederate uniforms and change places with a couple of the base's sentries that night, Gordon asked West if it was also true that West could knock a man out with a single punch. It was.

"In that case," his fellow Union officer grinned, "I intend to scream like a little girl . . . ."


	10. Chapter 10 - Boom Companions

_How many voices can he do?_

West marveled at his colleague's abilities again as he pulled on a pair of boots to go with the detested uniform he was now wearing. He and Artemus hadn't had any trouble ambushing, hog-tying and stripping a couple of the Confederate sentries once they'd found an opportunely dark location to do it in. Captain Gordon could indeed scream like a little girl – or even more disturbingly sound like a saucy prostitute offering a lonely rebel a come on. Both tactics had worked to lure their targets into the trap and West's itching fists had done the rest. Now the two anti-social French laborers from Louisiana were being replaced by two much neater, uniformed and properly armed C.S.A. soldiers ready for their rounds.

 _And what interesting and destructive rounds those would be . . . ._

West's only complaint was that their complete change of appearance necessitated Artemus' pulling off the glue strip 'scar' he'd put on West's face the day before. That had been accomplished with such a sudden, stinging bit of brutality that West's cheek still throbbed and he thought he'd be lucky not to wind up with another scar for real. But Artemus had ripped off his own fake mustache without so much as a grimace, so West couldn't begrudge the man. _Friends in suffering for a cause_ , he thought.

West was again astonished at how lax procedures were in General Bragg's camp as he and Artemus slipped into position in place of the sentries they'd waylaid. Union gossip had it that the Confederate general was big on discipline and order, but no evidence of that showed here yet. No dogs had sniffed them out since they'd arrived here. No one had caught them ambushing the couple of regulars. He had a mind to take a closer look at how the Army of the Cumberland was running _their_ side of things when he and Artemus got back – if they got back. Then again, West knew Major General Rosecrans and General Sheridan were at least acting like there was a war on and were more concerned with winning it than hoarding supplies or profiting off tobacco . . . .

To begin their mission of sabotage, the two Union officers made a complete circuit of the big tent, observing up close the weapons, the location of the lamps, rain barrels and fire buckets. They couldn't count on pulling off the cigar/lamp firebomb trick in more than two, perhaps three locations at most. West half-handful of cigars might not all continue to burn by themselves as he needed them to. Also, now that it was dark, a lantern not burning correctly might merit a closer inspection they couldn't afford. Sabotaging the fire buckets and rain barrels should be easier, but the rain barrels seemed to have gotten a head start on sabotaging themselves.

"Ice," Artemus observed in a whispered rendezvous with West near one of the barrels, rapping on the solid surface for effect. The barrels weren't frozen through – only the top half-inch or less had turned to ice. That would make them harder to dip buckets into, but it also complicated their plan for placing a flammable slick on top.

"I have another idea," West said. Taking out his knife and forcing it in between the planks that made up the lower half of the barrel, he sliced and twisted the blade enough at the join that the still-liquid water beneath began to trickle out onto the frozen ground below. Give it an hour of time and anyone breaking through the ice to get at the water below would find a whole lot of nothing, except for some very slick mud beneath their feet.

"I like the way you think," Artemus grinned, slicing a neat line around the bottom of the leather fire bucket. One way or another, General Bragg's secret war supply was going to have a very bad night.

The sloppy security solved the cigar/lamp problem too as Artemus had no difficulty pocketing some actual fuses that were _supposed_ to be fuses on a second turn around the tent as he and West continued making a mess of the fire buckets and at least some of the rain barrels. Now they'd be able to do some real and reliable damage, especially to a part of the stores that contained gunpowder and dynamite. The danger for them would be real as well – a mistimed set of explosions and they could be killed or seriously injured. But done right, all hell would be breaking loose in such an impressive fashion that they'd be able to escape – on horseback if they were lucky – while Bragg's men did whatever they could to put out the fires. If they were very, _very_ lucky they'd not only escape, they'd survive long enough to reach the safety of the Union lines too.

A fourth circuit around the main tent nearly brought trouble, as in the course of their patrol they both encountered another Confederate sentry – a real one. But he didn't appear to notice anything strange about either one of them. West breathed a sigh of relief at the next rendezvous and he and Artemus agreed that it was time to light up the town. During this fifth circuit they would have to be closely timed with one another. West was to use his cigar trick on one of the lamps near a black powder supply and a distance away, Artemus would insert and light the fuses to set off a box or two of dynamite. West had already soaked the tent material in one of the other corners with oil from a lamp while Artemus had treated an opposite corner likewise. Yes, things were about to get hot.

Moving fast, West had already lit up his cigar and was preparing to insert it into an oil lamp base when he was interrupted by an angry shout from behind.

"Hey!"

A Confederate sentry – the real one that they'd encountered on the previous go-round – was now staring at West and had lowered his rifle in West's direction. Had he been recognized?

"You know we're not allowed to smoke the cigars on duty!"

 _Or off duty either_ , West bet with chagrin, given how heavily guarded the tobacco barn and its precious contents were guarded. He pulled the offending cigar out of his mouth, held out his arms at his sides and tried to conceal the partially disassembled oil lamp with his body.

"It isn't one of the General's cigars," West explained. "It's one of the really cheap, bad ones we stole from the Yankees. Figured I'd try it just to see how awful they have it up there. Want to try for yourself?"

He offered the thin, dreadful cigar to the Confederate, who sniffed the air suspiciously and narrowed his eyes at the thin burning object in West's hand. West decided to go for the temptation that had worked with many a Union soldier he knew already.

"It tastes horrible," he said with unvarnished truth. "Worse than trying to smoke horse manure." Not that he'd ever done _that_ , thankfully.

The gambit worked. The sentry lowered his rifle and took the cigar from West's hand, eager to see just how bad a smoke it could possibly be. It was amazing how that was a lure to some people. The sentry took one puff and his face contorted into a grimace that was entirely appropriate for meeting the fist that came flying at it. The Confederate went down without firing a shot.

West retrieved the cigar and with a grimace of his own, relit it just to be sure it was burning. He inserted it carefully into the lamp base nearest the black powder stack and tried not to think about the precious seconds that had been wasted or the greater number that were about to be lost as he dragged the unconscious sentry as far from the tent as he could without being seen. He might have to kill this man in battle someday, but he couldn't leave a knocked-out soldier to burn up or be blasted apart while helpless. The effort had thrown his escape time off by over a minute, and that meant a potential disaster for his escape as the black powder exploded and Artemus set the dynamite fuse . . . .

West ran for the slight rise of slope in the direction of the horse barn where he and Artemus had agreed to meet, ran as hard as he could, and the force of the blast still caused him to trip and fall, rifle flying loose out of his hands. He felt someone grip his arm hard and prepared to fight back when he saw that it was Artemus attempting to help him to his feet and looking a bit pale and shaken even in the darkness. A series of explosions from under the great tent was ripping through the air and creating all the chaos and running and shouting of people that they'd hoped for. Few if any noticed as he and Artemus ran in the opposite direction from everyone else.

"Afraid I'd lost you there for a minute," Artemus admitted as they hastened to the horse barn.

West told him in as few words as possible what had happened when the Confederate sentry caught him with a lit cigar.

"My Great Aunt Maude is right," Artemus said and shook his head. "Smoking really _is_ bad for your health!"

All seemed to be going according to plan once again as they approached the stable. West should have known by now that escape wouldn't be so easy. They had anticipated that everyone in the vicinity who hadn't been stuck tumbling out of bed when the explosions and fires came would either be running toward the sounds or taking cover and cowering from them. At this hour, no one should have been near the horse barn, much less anyone who could recognize them. But someone had been planning a night time departure from the camp, and West and Gordon were no longer wearing their French laborer disguises.

"YOU!" Major Swallow spat as he saw the two Union captains step into the light of the lamps he had lit to see by while saddling his mount. The Major was fast too. Alerted by the explosions, he had been on his guard already and drew his gun to point at them before either man could make a move.

"We have to stop meeting like this," Artemus sighed, raising his hands. "My other arch-enemies are starting to suspect some-"

"SHUT UP!" Swallow yelled. His angry glare became one of narrow calculation as explosions continued to rattle the area behind West and Gordon. "I'll bet you two have something to do with this, don't you?" Swallow's finger was resting on the trigger, ready to pull it at the slightest provocation. "Yes – you must. And I intend to find out what it is. Slowly, perhaps."

West rolled his eyes. If Artemus could joke about this situation, so could he.

"Implying that you're planning to torture people to death isn't the best way to get them to surrender, you know," he said.

"Oh, I don't know," Artemus replied. "I'll bet he can get me to scream like a little girl. You remember what makes me scream like a little girl, don't you?"

 _Yeah. The fact that I can knock someone out with one punch._

West was almost close enough to do it, but could he be fast enough? He saw Artemus' muscles tense and knew his fellow officer was getting ready to do something. West had to be ready to spring into action too. And how he had longed to let his fists give Swallow a taste of his own medicine . . . . His muscles were wound up like a cat's – ready to pounce. He focused, wondering what Artemus was about to do this time.

Artemus suddenly gasped in sheer terror as his eyes became fixed, not on Swallow or the gun, but on a spot immediately behind the vicious Major. The actor's mouth gulped, his eyes bugged out of his head and his raised hands began to tremble. His feet shifted as though he wanted to run but was too paralyzed with fear to do so. West didn't need to wait for his cue. Major Swallow had no idea what sort of hideous or terrifying monster was lurking directly in back of him, but he couldn't resist the urge to look. He turned his head, tilted the gun away, just for a few seconds. It was long enough. West sent one fist, then the other, smashing into that hated chin with enough force to send Swallow flying a good six feet through the air before he rumpled to the ground in an inglorious and unconscious heap, the unfired revolver clattering out of his limp hand.

"Technically that was _two_ punches," Artemus noted.

"The second one was for artistic effect," West said. "By the way, has anyone ever told you that you're one hell of an actor?"

"I do all the time," Artemus beamed. "You know, James, from the look of things, Major Swallow has already saddled and readied his own personal horse for us, and a pack mule too. Why, I'll bet quite a few of his personal belongings and maps and supplies might be in them! Of course, he could be rather put out if we take them and all his weapons and leave him here with nothing but a sore jaw."

"I'll live with that," West replied, smiling just as broadly. "It's rude of me, I know, but what can you expect from young people these days?"

Together they saddled another horse and rode out as quickly as they could in the dark with the loaded pack mule in tow. No one pursued them. _Probably too busy protecting the cigar shed from the fires,_ West thought. He wouldn't have minded taking out the tobacco barn too, but that building at least was heavily guarded. Besides, West would be able to spend many happy hours contemplating what General Bragg might have to say to Jeff Davis and his other bosses by way of an explanation for how the weapons and ammunition had gotten torched while a luxury item was kept surrounded by sentries. Smoking might indeed be bad for Bragg's health . . . .

Both men would be able to contemplate that cheerful prospect on the ride back to Union territory. With the help of the diversion they'd created, plus Major Swallow's maps and supplies, the return to friendlier territory proved to be the most peaceful part of their entire adventure. But they had plenty of other things to talk about as soon as they were out of earshot of Murfreesboro.

"By the way, my friends call me Jim," West said.

"And mine call me Arte," Gordon nodded. "So does this mean we're friends, Jim?"

"I sure hope so, Arte."

"I do too, Jim."


	11. Chapter 11 - The Remembered Task

West enjoyed all the conversations he had on that ride and all the knowledge and stories that the older, more experienced intelligence officer shared with him so much that he was almost sorry when he saw the first signs of the Union line ahead of them. Neither man would regret getting some warmer clothing since they'd had to strip off the Confederate uniforms a mile away to avoid the risk of being shot by their own forces. Neither would be sorry for a hot, normal meal, a chance to wash off and to rest in something at least resembling a bed either. The exuberant heroes' welcome they got upon their arrival was nice too, although the welts on West's arms and torso could have done with a few less congratulatory slaps. Major General Rosecrans was just pleased and humane enough to allow both men to get some food, drink and first aid as they gave him and the other generals a full – well, _mostly_ full – account of their exploits and escape. Jim was content to let Arte do the bulk of the talking. Somehow Captain James T. West didn't feel quite as great a desire to be an arrogant show-off any longer . . . .

Of course, all too soon there would be a great battle to face, a fight upon which the fate of the nation depended. But West was too exhausted to worry about that as he slumped onto his cot to get some well-deserved sleep. He was allowed to sleep in and when he awoke, he didn't have to pull stray bits of hay out of his hair. Life was good.

Life was also full of unexpected twists and turns. When Jim sought for Arte after a late breakfast, he found his new friend already packing up and getting ready to head out.

"My mission here is done," his fellow captain sighed with what sounded very much like regret. "On to the next one. I've got a lot of other C.S.A. folks to spy on and bedevil, you know."

"That sounds dangerous," West frowned, suddenly fearing once more for this man he hadn't given a damn about only a week ago.

"Oh, it is," Arte said. "But it can be fun too, and it has its rewards. Like making new friends." He held out his hand and Jim shook it heartily. "It is a pleasure to know you, Sir."

"And you." But West couldn't shake a bit of worry as easily. "Just be careful out there, okay? Some of the rebels know what you look like for real now."

"Then I'll be sure not to look anything like myself." Arte winked, as he had when rescuing West from the smaller Confederate camp, but there was some concern in those brown eyes too, and not for himself. "Speaking of dangers . . . you're going back under Sheridan's command for the big tussle?"

"So they tell me, at least for now."

"Be very, _very_ careful yourself, Jim! I've seen too many good men die in this war already. I don't want you to be one of them."

"I'll do my best," Jim said, an unaccustomed lump forming in his throat. The unspoken truth hung in the air between them - they'd both be doing all that they could to survive, but who knew if they would ever meet in this world again? With another handshake and a friendly but gentle clap on their mutually sore shoulders, they parted company. As Jim watched Arte leave, he had the nagging feeling that he had forgotten to do something, but what was it?

[-]

Secret Service agent James West shivered as another drop of perspiration trickled down his chest and evaporated. He didn't know exactly how long he'd been lost in the maze of remembrance, but the sun was high in the sky now and breakfast would be waiting for him on board the Wanderer. And coffee. After reliving in such sharp detail a memory like that one, he could definitely use some coffee . . . . But what could have brought back that particular experience in his past? What scent or sensation other than sweat had recalled that?

Climbing back onto the train that was his home now, Jim saw that his partner was awake, fully dressed and drinking a cup of coffee himself at the little wooden table around which they and the engineers took most of their meals. Arte was enjoying the leisurely morning in his own preferred way, catching up with the stack of newspapers they'd bought in the last major town they'd passed through. He didn't even look up from the article he was reading as Jim entered the room, but reached out a hand to push the tray containing that morning's breakfast offering in Jim's direction. Jim breathed in the familiar scent again, stared down at the tray and almost burst out laughing. Set before him was a batch of fluffy biscuits, redolent with butter and filled with thin slices of smoked ham.

 _The only thing I thanked him for . . . ._

"Artemus . . . ."

"Hm?" Arte murmured, still not drawing his attention away from the newspaper he was reading.

"Arte," Jim summoned his most sincere and solemn tone, "thank you."

That _did_ make Arte look up at his partner in puzzlement.

"Whatever for?"

 _For rescuing an arrogant, temperamental, wet-behind-the-ears showoff. For teaching me not to be that person. For all the times you've saved my life and risked your own to come to my rescue since then. Most of all, for being the best friend a guy could ever ask for._

"Just . . . thanks."

"You're welcome, I guess," Arte shrugged and went back to reading his article. Jim yawned and smiled as he reached down and grabbed one of the biscuits to go with his coffee. When he bit into it, it tasted like a feast. Like the best biscuit he'd ever had in his life . . . .

Outside the small kitchen area, the sun was shining, the frozen dew on the grass was beginning to thaw and the train was getting up to steam. Life was good.


End file.
